


The Shimmering

by Inforapoundd



Category: Vikings (TV)
Genre: Best Friends, Eventual Smut, F/M, Fluff and Smut, Friendship/Love, Magic, ivar - Freeform, mean ivar, unlikely romance
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-10-04
Updated: 2019-10-04
Packaged: 2020-11-23 07:50:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,963
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20888666
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Inforapoundd/pseuds/Inforapoundd
Summary: A story about a lonely, bitter King who finds comfort in an unlikely person.





	1. Chapter 1

Irrigation pricked the back of his neck, giving the sensation that his leathers were too heavy for the early autumn weather. Only partly listening to his guard report on the completion of the parameter wall, his eye repetitively skipped back to the repulsive looking slave.

“Yes, King Ivar?”

Hmm? he looked back at Hamundr, a grizzly red-headed man, with grey in his beard, despite them being close in age.

“We will move the scaffolding then?”

“What?” he asked, scanning the handful of tables filled with people drinking.

“We will move the scaffolding to the north side?” Hamundr repeated from where he stood next to the King’s chair.

“Yes, fine,” Ivar flicked his fingers, indicating he could return to his post at the bottom of the stairs. 

Glancing over to the far side of the hall, he watched the grimacing faces of those sitting at a table, as the wretched girl leaned over their shoulders, filling their cups with ale.

Raising a hand, he signaled for the thrall standing off to one side of him.

“Yes, My King,” she scurried over.

Ivar kept his eyes forward. “What is the name of that woman in charge of the kitchen?”

“Brunhild.”

“Get her,” he snapped.

Nodding, she raced from the throne platform, disappearing through the door to the kitchen.

A large woman with a small flaxen bun at the back of her neck and a dirty apron rushed out wiping her hands on a cloth.

“My King,” she bowed her head curtly. Her face tense with apprehension. Not a thrall, but a free woman, she was in charge of the kitchen, food stores, and the hall slaves.

“How old are you?”

Furrowing her brow, “I am sorry King Ivar?”

“So old that you cannot hear me? I already know you are going blind.”

“I am thirty-six. My hearing is good. I apologize, I did not understand your question.”

“There should be no excuses then as to why you allow filth into this hall to serve your King and his guests. Hmm? Is that how lowly you think of me?”

“No! King Ivar, no.”

The heads of those at the surrounding tables began to turn, faces growing uneasy, listening to his escalating tone.

“Why is there a repulsive looking slave in this hall? Caked with filth, uncut matted hair and I can tell by the way people recoil from her, that she must smell even worse than she looks.”

“Oh,” Brunhild looked down, acknowledging his words with a nod. 

“My King,” she looked up to him. “Please forgive me. That girl tends to the animals, but I was short-handed and brought her in to help. I will remove her immediately. You will never see her again.”

“Too late,” he quipped. “I have seen her and she makes me sick! I may have even lost my appetite,” he spat.

“Bring the slave,” Ivar commanded Hamundr standing at the bottom of the steps. “She needs to be punished for offending me. Do you not agree, Brunhild?” His eyes settled back on the woman who was nervously kneading the fabric of her apron.

Opening her mouth to speak, she stopped, dropping her gaze to the floor. Her chin trembled and her eyes shone with tears.

“And you,” he snapped at Brunhild, causing her to startle and look up. “I understand that you were brought on by that usurper of my mother. Given the task of running this hall. You are a widow with a young child, yes? Your husband was a warrior who fell in battle?

Brunhild nodded, her movements shaky. “That is correct, King Ivar.”

“I would have thought that you would show greater appreciation for being kept in your position. Do you not get a shack to live in and a small allowance in trade?

“Yes, My King. I am truly grateful. Very, very, grateful. I thank Odin every…”

“It is me who keeps you working!” he roared, cutting her off. “You will stand there and watch the punishment that I hand out to this degenerate, and,” Ivar pointed a gloved finger at her, “you will not shed a tear in my hall.” His intense stare was interrupted by the Hamundr shoving the filthy slave toward them.

Turning to see, Brunhild gasped into her hand before turning back to the throne. “Please, let me just remove her.”

“No!” Ivar shouted. “Bring the swine to me.”

The girl, whose face looked like it had been smeared with soot, dressed in dirty clothes with long greasy hair slumped down onto her hands and knees. Face pointing down, her eyes tipped up, peering through her dark brows and grimy bangs to Ivar who sat scowling above.

“What are you so scared of?” he asked in a jeering, sarcastic tone. “Me?” he jabbed.

Instantly, she dropped her gaze, tilting her face further to the floor.

Laughing sharply, Ivar stopped abruptly, scrunching his nose in disgust. 

“What is your name slave?”

Staring at the ground, she muttered something inaudible.

“Your name?” he barked.

“Reek, My King.”

“Reek?” he furrowed his brow, looking to Hamundr. “What kind of name is Reek?” Rolling his neck, he snapped his head back to look at her. “You disgust me Reek! Worse, your existence irritates me,” he sneered.

Sighing loudly, his expression settled as he studied her. The hall was nearly quiet as Ivar sat still in his throne. People began to shift uncomfortably in their places.

Nodding abruptly, his eyes came to life. “You will be fed tonight, bathed, dressed properly so you do not insult the Gods….”

As he spoke, the girl’s forehead wrinkled in confusion. Slowly, her eyes rose to meet his. 

…and tomorrow,” he paused, “you will be sacrificed.”

“No!” cried Brunhild, stepping forward, falling to her knees beside the slave. Both guards stepped forward as if to block her access to Ivar.

“No, My King. Please. I beg you. I beg.”

With raised eyebrows, Ivar continued speaking as if he had not witnessed Brunhild’s display. “Tomorrow…. you will be sacrificed as we ask the Gods to bless the wall of Kattegat.”

“She sleeps with the animals that she keeps,” Brunhild rushed. “Sleeps with the sheep and the pigs. Do not sacrifice her!” Brunhild’s tears flowed freely, her head shaking as she pleaded. “She refuses to sleep in the barn with the others and keeps herself stinking to save herself from being raped by the brutes in town. Please.”

Ivar’s eyes fluttered over to the girl kneeling before him, glancing back to the near hysterical woman.

“Why would this matter to me?” he lifted his nose arrogantly. “Why would I care her reason. The Gods will bless the fortification which is now complete. The blood of a human is far more sacred than a cow or a goat. This will please Odin very much.”

“Take me!” Brunhild cried, her eyes wide.

Ivar furrowed his brows.

“I will do it.” Brunhild steadied her voice, clearing her throat. “Take me instead. I will be the sacrifice.”

“You would die for this,” he lifted his hand in the girl’s direction, shaking his head in bewilderment. “Are you not a widow with a child? You would leave your son behind?” Ivar leaned forward, resting his elbows on the armrest of his chair. “Is he not that sickly, scrawny boy who comes into the hall from time to time?”

“Yes, King Ivar. She will look after him,” Brunhild motioned with her head toward the slave. “She will care for him. I will take her place.”

“No,” the slave girl called out. Reaching over, she grabbed a fist full of Brunhild’s skirt.

“Why? Tell me why?” Ivar narrowed his eyes. His expression dubious.

“My boy is sick. In pain. He has an illness of the gut. Cannot keep food in him without her.”

“Brunhild!” the slave hissed.

Glancing to the girl, Brunhild continued. “She soothes his pain, My King. She brought him back from near death.”

“SHUT UP,” the girl snapped through gritted teeth, tipping her head up to the side, glaring at Brunhild.

“She is a healer?” Ivar’s forehead lifted in surprise.

“No, not like that. She…” Brunhild blinked rapidly searching for the words, “… has the touch.

“Stop,” the girl whispered.

“The touch?” Cocking his head to one side, he studied the slave who was shaking her head in defeat.

“The touch My King.” Brunhild’s eyes glanced to either side as if to confirm who would overhear. Leaning forward, she stared directly at Ivar. “She has the shimmering.”


	2. Chapter 2

It was always in that thin layer of sleep, just before dawn, as the body begins its climb from the depth of slumber, that the images would come. The susurrus flutter of white wings snapping through the air to reach a perch. Surely a dove, as the gulls that soared high above the harbour, had grey markings on their wings.

As a boy, he used to wonder what kind of pathetic dove would not even murmur or coo while roosting, settling its wings. As long as he could remember, we woke from that dream. His bird, always hidden from view, except for a flash of those creamy white wings. It felt as though Odin was mocking him. Goading, by placing a song-less, faceless dove in his sleep. While, in every floating image, the scream of a raven echoed somewhere in the distance. He used to ask the All-Father why he was teased with the flash of a bird he could not see. A bird who made no sound with the laugh of a raven kraa’ing in the background. Was it a taunt? A reminder that there was a life out there, on the other side of what he could see and feel, that would never be his? He used to ask this question as a boy. Now, as a grown man, an unmarried King, unable to produce an heir with no family, he just woke and waited for the night to return.

The heavy rain and rolling thunder were an unwelcome sound that morning. Odin had plans and Ivar was quite sure he was not part of them. Looking out the open shutters of his bedroom chamber, the sheets of rain pelted the dirt, creating muddy streams down the edges of the lane. The fog of melancholy settled in his chest like a familiar friend. Another day to endure. Winter was growing near. His pain, aggravated by the cold, growing impossible. Life as a hated King was a quiet one.

The wall was near complete and it was time to ask the Gods to bless it. Hold its strength and continue to see that Kattegat and Ivar’s terror remained. If they even care. Ivar was not sure.

“Slave!” his voice ripped through the nearly empty room. The door burst open and a skittish woman stepped in.

Without turning from his view at the window, “Have the girl brought to me.”

“In your chambre, My King?”

Swiveling, he shot the slave a piercing look.

“Yes. Right away,” she rushed, leaving the room and closing the door behind.

Inhaling slowly, his eyes never strayed from the small tributaries of water flowing around piles of excrement in the street. The door behind opened again and the sound of shifting feet moved into the room.

“At the table,” Ivar uttered in a voice sounding far away.

The screech of a chair scraping across the roughly cut floorboard grated his ears. Then it was quiet.

“Leave,” Ivar commanded

“Just me?” the guard asked.

Breathing out an irritated sigh, “Just you.”

Once the door was again closed and they were alone, the peace returned. She did not shift in her chair, nor scrape the soles of her shoes over the wooden floor. Ivar could not hear her breath. He waited. And waited. Perhaps, a friendly match. How long could she sit still, silently in fear? How long could he stand in agony, looking out that window, without crying in pain?

Silently calling a truce, he winced and turned stiffly to face his repulsive prisoner. He must interrogate her. Get to the bottom of these tales. Ensure she was a worthy sacrifice. Looking up, his first reaction was confusion. Had the halfwits brought in the wrong captive? Where was Reek? Before him sat a young woman. Long brown hair, oval face, blue eyes and lips that looked too large for her other features. Sitting with a straight back, she clutched her hands tight, resting on the tabletop. Her posture could be mistaken for confidence. It was not that, he noted. Acceptance? That knowing that came to some right before certain death.

“You look…” his words slipped out before he had made the decision to speak, “washed.”

Saying nothing, her eyes dropped to her rough, worn hands. Ivar could see her knuckles were white from how tightly they gripped together. Good, he thought, nearly smiling. Why did he care that he could put fear into a useful slave? He could not answer, other than, he just did.

“Do you accept my decision to offer you to the Gods?”

A flash of uncertainty moved behind her plain features. So subtle, it barely registered to his eye.

“Yes? Speak freely, Reek. Give me an answer,” his tone was calm but expectant.

“King Ivar, does it matter?”

“What?”

“Does it..” she hesitated. 

Ivar jerked his head, urging her to continue.

“Does it matter if I do?” Dropping her eyes to the table, she looked back up to him.

“No,” he replied softly, hobbling forward on his crutch and taking the seat across from her. He was too tired to care what it looked like. A king and a slave, seated together.

Studying her face, he was mildy intrigued by her steady demeanor.

“What is it about Christians?” His nostrils flared at the word. “Why are you quick to accept defeat. Roll over and die ahead of fighting? Hmm?”

Mumbling something, she looked back down to her hands.

“What?” He rubbed his eyes and forehead with his hand. “Try not to annoy me,” he sighed wearily. “I am being nice,” his voice sounding worn.

“I am not a Christian My King,” she looked back to him.

“What are you then?” Who is your god?”

“I am not sure I have one.”

Grunting, Ivar cocked his head to one side. Squinting, he pondered her words.

“I have been a slave here for nearly five seasons. A slave before here, in Wessex, nearly my whole life. I never went to any church and I am sure my mother would never have been welcome.

Ivar furrowed his brow. “Why?’

“She was a whore,” she said flatly.

Exhaling loudly, Ivar shook his head. “So no fight for your life?”

Scoffing, she caught herself, her face again serious. “There is not a man, woman, or slave, pig for that matter, who does not know about your skill with an ax. I know I cannot fight with any hope of success. You or your guards.”

“Hope? I do not fully understand this hope.”

“Me either,” her tone was dry.

“Very well, no fight.” his tone resigned. He grabbed his crutch, readying to stand.

“I have…” she hesitated, her words trailing off. Dropping her eyes from his, she wet her lower lip anxiously.

“Go on,” Ivar prodded without any inkling of what she might say.

“I have barely survived life here. I have fought, hidden, covered myself in shit. Stayed in the shadows so the filthy drunks do not lay their hands on me. I am always, each winter and each summer either cold or hungry and usually both. The ache is permanent. I once thought I would grow accustomed to it but….”

“Being sacrificed would be a relief?”

“Dying, knowing that I could have eased your discomfort, feels like a very small victory.”

Studying how her eyes flitted from his, not staying away long. Her mouth, how it must have felt dry causing her to continually lick her lips for relief. She was not being defiant or cocky. Was not threatening him. She was simply telling the truth.

“That is your fight Reek?”

Nodding, she stared at her hands.

“What is this… shimmering? The word sounded funny to her ears in his accent.

“I cannot explain it. But it does provide comfort.”

“You heal?”

“No,” her eyes flashed up to his. “I can relieve. Not cure.”

“How?”

“I cannot answer that. I do not understand how it happens. I wish I knew. It is just something that I do with my hands and mind.”

Ivar was not sure why he was not snapping at her. Was not demanding that she tell him. Looking over her soft shoulders and bowed head. Listening to her plain words. He believed her.

“You have this ability and yet you do not believe in any gods?”

“King Ivar,” she blinked rapidly, subtly shaking her head. “I do not understand it myself. It has just always been.”

Straightening in his chair, he leaned forward, placing his elbows on his chair. “Does it work for everyone?” He shifted again. His legs screaming.

“So far,” she answered quietly.

“Could you do it on me?” Why was he asking her, he wondered?

“Not if I am dead.”

Air shot from his noise with amusement, his eyes bright.

“Guard!” he bellowed, startling her in her seat. The doors burst open and the guard stepped in. “Take the prisoner away and bring her back after second meal.”

“Not to the ceremony My King?”

“The celebration will be postponed until tomorrow.” He spoke never taking his eyes off Reek. “The weather is poor.”

Stepping forward, the guard motioned his arm for her to stand. Glancing to Ivar she stood, stepping around the chair and turned to the following the guard.

“Reek?”

Stopping, she looked back over her shoulder.

“See you tonight.”


End file.
